


stab you in the front

by shameless_rogue



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Romance, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Penguin / Riddler, Songfic, post dock scene, so its angsty enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shameless_rogue/pseuds/shameless_rogue
Summary: „When did this turn into a series of pranks?”„Did it?”Oswald returns after he was shot by Ed and seems to seek revenge. Time passes though, and somehow they both become less bloodthirsty (and more emotional) than they once were.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title and lyrics from BMTH's [True Friends](http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BpmJh2CjSIA)

_I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was you_  

_Cause I'll forget but I'll never forgive_ _you_  

_Don’t you know, don’t you know_ _?_  

_True friends stab you in the front_  

 

He should have put Oswald in the trunk of his car. Or taped his mouth, at least. But only five minutes ago it wouldn’t have felt right to deny him a last glance at his beloved city. 

Now that he’s started talking, Ed wishes he'd been less of a sentimentalist. 

„You don’t have to do this,” Oswald says, for the eighth time. Ed's been counting. „I see now that I have hurt you, and I swear I never meant to. I just—I wanted to have you all for myself.” His voice breaks with honesty, which would be a lot more touching if he wasn’t repeating himself. Again. And again. „I understand that this is wrong, but—” 

„It’s not.” Ed's grip tightens on the steering wheel, like he could squeeze the life out of Oswald by grabbing a random object. 

„Then why—" 

„Because you screwed up, Oswald,” Ed snaps, hitting the dashboard with his fist, and Oswald flinches. „You could have told me not to meet her again. You didn’t have to murder her, god damn it!” 

„Yes I did,” Oswald mutters. 

„What did you say?” 

 

_It's funny how things work out_  

_Such a bitter irony_  

_Like a kick right to the teeth_  

 

"I got a riddle for you, Nygma," Bullock says while working on his shackles, "we'll see how you like it." 

"Oh, you made it up yourself?" 

"That's right. So, this I how it sounds," and he actually clears his throat before starting, instead of adding it casually, like anyone with an IQ score equal to a positive integer would. "How long does a psychopath survive his second time in Arkham?" 

Ed rolls his eyes. Sadly, that's all he can do, thanks to the metallic handcuffs Bullock's attempting to break his wrists with. His arms are behind his back, his shoulders turned to a physically impossible angle. 

_Harvey, please, how long does a clumsy investigator survive before said psychopath puts a bullet in his head?_  

"Now that's a very good question," Ed murmurs, and Bullock pats him on one of the shoulder blades. The punch is not strong enough to bruise his skin, but the message is clear—the next one won't be so nice. 

Also, they're supposed to get going. 

Ed marches out of his flat full of dignity, like he's simply going for a walk. Maybe incidentally accompanied by a morose Bullock and an overly frustrated Gordon, but oh well, these things happen. Even though poor Jimbo looks like he's been trying to avoid his arrest, and let's just say he wouldn't do such a thing out of sympathy. It's the evidence that seems like a problem to him. 

Not too surprisingly, it's a problem for Ed, too, and not an entirely different kind of problem. The corpse—with a great neon green question mark sprayed onto the shapeless lump that once was his head—is way too obvious. Way too obviously not the work of the Riddler. 

 

_It fell apart right from the start_  

_But I couldn't even see_  

_The forest for the trees_  

 

This is what he calls himself now. 

Sometimes. 

When he's alone with his other self. 

It counts as a name anyway. 

 

_I'M AFRAID YOU ASKED FOR THIS_  

 

Arkham has changed in the past year, or Ed has, who knows. The large building used to look almost imposing, despite the cries of madmen leaking from every crack of its ancient bricks; and the memory of his crazy old cellmates suddenly seems less disgusting when he's faced with the new ones. 

There's the red-haired young man who attempted to kill Bruce Wayne while Ed was busy shooting Oswald. He's not willing to talk to him, though, so Ed has no choice but to consider him rather rude. 

He doesn't know why he never got rid of Tarquin's body properly. Acid bath. Fire. The damn river, Jesus. The poor draft of a plan to let him be discovered became pointless after Oswald's death, and Ed was incautious enough to simply dump the corpse near the docks. He wasn't really expecting anyone to find it. He knew no one was going to look. 

Someone did anyway. And with this thought Ed snaps, letting out an unarticulated cry, clashing his fist into the nearest wall. A lunatic next door chuckles, then knocks back. 

Someone else chuckles too. Inside his cell. 

He turns, fast enough to almost fall from his mattress. 

"Leave me alone," he hisses. The shadow he sees is shorter than the one of his second self, and its sharp edges are contoured by a weak purple halo. And it has a bloody umbrella. Just like the night before. And the night before that. And before that. 

Ed bites his tongue so he doesn't start screaming again. 

"Go," he says to the empty cell, and his other self steps out of a dark corner to slide his fingers over the new shadow's neck. He chokes him until he, for some reason that can't be logically explained, bleeds out, covering Ed's face with hot drops of purple blood that's glowing in the dark. 

He's released after three nerve-racking weeks. And when it's whispered in his ear that the mayor has come back and ensured that he's set free immediately, he lets delight wash over his entire body, heating up his veins and blinding his mind. 

Oswald's back. And he's brought a riddle. He's standing in Ed's cell, strangled by the hands of his shadow, and he's asking something—why aren't you disappointed, Eddie, that's what he's asking. 

What a question. Easy to answer. Boring, because it's been answered so many times. 

I'll be happy if it turns out that he survived, he's been telling to his reflection. I'll be happy, because then I'll get to experience the joy of killing him again. 

We both know you're lying, his reflection answers most of the time. And Ed shrugs it off, he makes himself feel anger instead of deservedness when he thinks about his second time in Arkham. 

Nice one, Oswald. Gotta admit. 

 

_It's kind of sad, cause what we had_  

_Well it could have been something_  

_I guess it wasn't meant to be_  

 

„When did this turn into a series of pranks?” 

„Did it?” 

 

_SO HOW DARE YOU_  

 

Oswald looks—different. And it's not his new hairstyle (again), and not the purple tie with the shade worryingly similar to the halo in Ed's hallucination. Hallucinations, to be precise, but he decides this is not the right time for precision. 

The difference is in his eyes. Or isn't. Because it's the lack of something that Ed sees there, maybe the lack of his so-called love, but that's not a thing that touches Ed right now. 

"Nice to see you alive," he says with his glass of whiskey raised high. Oswald shows him his best smile, the one that arches up to his ears, the one that's made Ed uncomfortable ever since he learned just how fake it is. 

"Nice to see you outside Arkham." 

Ed clears his throat. "You know there was no need to get me out. I was doing just fine." 

"Sure. You don't owe me anything, if that's what you mean." 

Silence, then. Ed takes a sip and doesn't feel its taste. They're seated in the living room of Oswald's house, and the place is way too pretty to be ruined by spilling blood, but he's got things to do here. 

He puts down his full glass. 

"I think there's one thing I owe you," he begins. He doesn't sound as confident as he wants to. 

"What's that?" 

"I've brought a knife, if you really are interested." 

Oswald should look scared. Or like he cares, at least. He only raises an eyebrow instead, as if he didn't understand what Ed means. "I'm always interested in you." 

"Then let me end this." 

He reaches for the knife and Oswald moves finally; he stops him by grabbing his wrist before he could even find the right pocket of his waistcoat. 

"You don't actually think I'll let you slice my throat, do you?" Oswald asks with a playful smile. "I mean, I love you and everything, but maybe not this much." 

It's been a while since Ed last heard his voice. It's been a while since he last heard him say he loves him, and now it feels familiar and just as wrong as a month ago. Even if it's a different kind of wrong. 

"You're not supposed to love me," he says without thinking about it, and Oswald laughs, softly, viciously. 

"You're not supposed to love me, either." 

"I don't—" 

"Of course not." Oswald lifts his hand to his lips and kisses it, his gaze still lingering on Ed's eyes, his heavy breath radiating through his skin. "You've made that pretty clear." 

And this is it, the thing that's so painfully new about Oswald—he looks not only cruel, but also mature enough to understand his own cruelty. Mature enough to turn his love into pain, pain for Ed this time. 

"It's my turn," Ed argues, a thumb experimentally brushing against Oswald's lips. He doesn't flinch. Neither of them does. "I had my revenge, then you had yours, so now it's my turn again. Isn't that how it works?" 

Oswald lowers their hands to his thigh, and Ed swallows hard. There's no time to rearrange his thoughts, confused by the mere sensation of the clothes covering Oswald's body. 

"You've had your turn," Oswald corrects him. "You've brought a knife. Let's say that was a small thing you've been aching to do, and I'll play my turn accordingly." 

"Go for it." 

Oswald kisses him. He's not surprised. Then he is, when he notices himself responding to it. 

 

_Try and steal my flame_  

_Just cause yours faded_ _?_  

_Well hate is gasoline_  

_A fire fueling all my dreams_  

 

Oswald looks down at him, sweating and smiling, and Ed can’t help the disgust he feels for himself. He runs his hands up Oswald’s back, down his thigh, drinks in all his pleased sighs; and he stares at the door over his shoulder so he doesn’t have to see what his touch does to Oswald. Or, to be precise, his own reflection in Oswald’s eyes, which must look just as undone by Oswald as Oswald by him. 

Ed decides that this is not the right time for precision either. 

„Alright?” Oswald murmurs while wrapping his hand around Ed’s cock. Ed’s still focused on the doorknob; his gaze is hard and so is his voice when he speaks. 

„Yes.” He gulps, his breath hitching in his throat. Oswald seems utterly satisfied. „You always get what you want, don’t you?” 

Oswald’s still jerking him off, his eyes full of happiness, his smirk full of ridicule. „Do I?” 

„Don’t you?” 

„You tell me.” 

 

_I'M AFRAID YOU ASKED FOR THIS_  

 

The air is hot, and wet, and sticky, full of their breath and sweat. Without his glasses, Ed can only see the silhouettes of the objects in the room, and not much more of Oswald, but he's just fine with that. They got through the cautious, chaste phase of their affair—did he just simplify it into an affair?— quickly enough. He’s not planning to get into anything that involves emotions (or proper eyesight, for that matter) so fast. 

What he can see though is that Oswald is slowly falling asleep. He can see his closing eyelids, and he can hear his even breathing too, falling in a falsely synchronized rhythm with his heartbeat. 

Ed inches closer to him—he has to, considering the position they collapsed in after their orgasms. On the two sides of the bed. Far enough to avoid another touch, close enough to feel the cool breeze of each other's ragged breath on their skin. 

Ed's facing Oswald. It seems like the proper thing to do. It also seems like the only option, unless he wants to move anything other than his intercostal muscles, which he would very much like to avoid. 

Oswald’s laying on his back, not glancing at him for a second. 

So Ed has to inch closer to throw an arm around him, just casually, with the relaxed laziness of someone who actually knows what he’s doing. (For the record: he's not sure.) Oswald hums softly and pats his forearm. 

„Bathroom?” he asks, turning his head to look at Ed. Well, that’s what he probably does—the blurred lines of his features aren’t really helping, so Ed can’t be sure, but he decides there must be some eye contact going on. He shrugs, shoulder brushing against Oswald’s chest. 

„I'm fine.” 

„Good.” Oswald turns away, and Ed considers complaining for a second, but then Oswald's back is pressing into his chest, and he finds himself hugging him close. 

There’s a moment of awkwardness, with the both of them laying with their muscles clenched and their breath forgotten about; then Oswald holds Ed's hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss on its back. This seems to have become a form of communication between the two of them. It should be weird, and it actually is; but it feels simpler than forming words, and it’s fast—without having the time to think about it, Ed relaxes into the touch immediately. 

He decides he likes this state. Body too exhausted to function, brain shut down for at least two minutes, unable to produce another riddle for defining the pair of them. It's strangely convenient. 

„So what is it that you call yourself now?” Oswald murmurs into his skin, softly enough not to break the soothing silence inside his mind. „Riddler?” 

„Mhm.” 

„That’s very—telling.” 

Ed huffs out a laugh, pretending to be more offended than he is. „I was hoping you'd say creative.” 

„Alright.” Oswald tries to turn and face him, but Ed holds him firmly in place. He’s not sure what he’s afraid of—Oswald shifting closer, or Oswald escaping. „Be creative, then. Tell me a riddle.” 

And that’s it, that sets his mind working, even though there’s nothing to think about. Not really. 

„You are inside me when I scare you away; if I can't make you dream, I will give you fear.” 

Oswald glances at him over his shoulder, still unable to move properly. 

„What are you?” he asks. 

Darkness, Ed wants to lie. Then he says nothing. Then he reaches for his glasses. With the emotional part screwed up, he might as well put them back on. 

 

_You've got a lot of nerve, but not a lot of spine_  

_You made your bed when you worried about mine_  

 

„I thought sex was still a part of your turn.” 

„It can be.” 

„Then I’m next. And I'm supposed to be holding that knife.” 

„I cheated.” Oswald caresses his cheek with his thumb, gently, as though he wasn’t forcing Ed to lift his chin with the same hand. He’s holding a slender knife in the other one, the side of its blade touching Ed's throat softly. One flick of his wrist, and its edge could slice through his carotid artery. 

Ed reaches for his hand and peels his fingers off the knife—Oswald doesn’t let it go easily, but there’s no actual fight over it. The touches are much nicer than their gazes, connected through fogged up lenses now. 

Ed’s sitting in the porcelain bathtub. He lets the knife fall to the ground, and signals Oswald to join him. 

„You wouldn’t cut me,” he says with a poorly concealed smirk. 

„I wouldn’t kill you,” Oswald corrects him, stepping in the warm water. „There's a difference.” 

„There is.” 

„Sorry about last week, by the way.” Oswald finally finds his place in Ed’s lap, and Ed runs a wet hand through his hair. He's still surprised to see it greying. „I didn’t mean to hurt you too bad.” 

„It’s fine. Just don’t be too surprised when _you_ find explosives in your shoes.” 

„I may have gone too far.” 

„You may have.” 

„Sorry.” Oswald leans against his chest, lifting his head to look up at him. It feels like he’s offering his throat, like he’s trying to tempt Ed to play his turn right now. „Are you still angry?” 

„About last week?” 

„About Isabelle.” 

„Damn you,” Ed snaps, and Oswald’s kissing his hand before it could reach the knife. 

_When_ _did_ _this_ _turn_ _into_ _a series of_ _pranks_ _?_  

 

_THIS ENDS NOW_  

 

„I did.” Ed turns to face him, and the rage in Oswald’s gaze makes him gulp despite himself. „I had to. You know my friendship wouldn’t have been more important to you than her—love.” He literally spits the last word into Ed's face, warm drops of saliva land on his skin. „Don't lie to me, Ed. We both know there was no other way!” 

„There was one.” Oswald reaches out to lay a hand on his, one of the two tied tightly together; and Ed shakes off the touch with an annoyed snort long before he could actually feel it. „Stop. The only thing I know is that you betrayed my trust.” 

„I'll fight to earn it again!” This time Oswald manages to grab his wrist before he could react. „I've just proven my love for you, and I'll show you that I deserve your trust, I swear!” 

„I doubt you'll have the time.” 

"No. No, no, no, listen to me. Ed." Oswald is clinging to his hand but he keeps his gaze focused on the road. God, how awful it must feel to hold the hand of the one you love, and get nothing but the touch of cold, unresponsive skin in return. Like they're dead. 

Not associating this moment with the autopsy of someone _he_ loved, of course. 

„Ed? Ed. Ed, I never had the foggiest idea about what my actions would do to you. You've shown it to me now. And I am sorry. But you know that I am, damn it, Ed, at least look at me when I'm trying to convince you to stop torturing me!” 

Ed can see Oswald's reflection in the windshield, and he decides not to admit to himself that he actually glances at it, instead of staring blankly at the muddy asphalt disappearing under the wheels. Oswald looks like he's unable to choose between being frightened and being enraged, so Ed practically helps him out when he lets his lips form a small, hopefully cruel-looking smile. 

Oswald's almost comprehensible reasoning turns into a desperate, stuttering plea by the time they get to the docks. Two minutes and five seconds later he’s sinking, leaving nothing but the memory of a silky tie burnt into Ed’s dry palm. 

Ed stares after him, maintaining eye contact for as long as he can, a proud smile still playing in the corner of his mouth. Then he laughs. Then he congratulates himself for laughing first before dropping to his knees and wiping his fogged glasses. 

It's merely another hallucination, but he swears the raindrops on his cheeks taste like salt. 

 

_I_ _wouldn’t_ _hold_ _my_ _breath_ _if_ _I_ _was_ _you_  

_You_ _broke_ _my_ _heart_ _and_ _there’s_ _nothing_ _you_ _can_ _do_  

_Now_ _you_ _know_ _,_ _now_ _you_ _know_  

_True_ _friends_ _stab_ _you_ _in_ _the_ _front_  

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if you feel like it, they're what I live for!
> 
> shedding more tears for Nygmobblepot on my [tumblr](http://stuckinthosefandoms.tumblr.com)


End file.
